About Jeff, Who Was Not Very Polite

When I was 15 years old, and my brother, Bruce, was 13, we lived in a suburb in Tacoma, Washington, called Lakewood (which has since been incorporated and is now its own city).

One day, while my brother ans I were out terrorizing the world together on our 10-speeds, we saw a black man flying a line-controlled model airplane in an empty parking lot of the local highschool. It was the weekend, so there were no students around.

Being the boys that we were, my brother and I were of course drawn to the scene like flies to well, you know. The man quickly befriended us and even offered to let us try to fly the plane. My brother and I had similar planes of our own, so we had no trouble getting the model into the air.

The man said his name was Jeff Polite, and he soon asked us boys if we wanted to go to his room to see his other model airplanes. He was obviously retarded and still lived at home with his parents though he was in his mid 20's.

Because he acted so much like a kid – like one of us – my brother and I accepted the invitation without apprehension. Jeff seemed a little weird, definitely not dangerous.

Jeffs parents were not home, of course. But, he invited us into his bedroom anyway, of course. The room was almost a typical of what you would expect of any teenager's room – there was nothing „adult” about it all. There was a made bed in the middle, a few plastic Revel model airplanes hung from the ceiling with fishing line, and more plastic models on some book shelves.

At the end of the bed was a desk that might have had a model airplane in the process of being assembled. The desk did have various impliments and gadgets used for building model planes, which my brother and I took an interest in.

Then for some mysterious reason Jeff became agitated with me and asked me to leave. But my brother was welcome to stay so Jeff could „show him something”. My brother and I were still completely unsuspicious of Jeff, so I just thought he'd decided he didn't like me, and my brother wanted to stay to look at the models and stuff some more.

So, I left, and my brother stayed. But, not for very long.

Before I got even halfway home on my bike (about a mile) I heard my brother calling from behind for me to stop so he could catch up.

When he caught up he just said, „Jeff's a weirdo”. Then we continued on together.

I asked him what Jeff wanted to show him, and my brother said he didn't know. He told me that Jeff just asked him to hold onto a two or three foot length of wire that went „inside his pants”.

This didn't make sense to either of us. But apparently Jeff made my brother nervous enough that Bruce quickly decided to leave and try to catch up with me after all. When I pressed my brother for more information he repeated what he'd already said, and we both shrugged it off as some „retardo” thing.

Less than two years later I was convicted for raping a 14 year old boy in the same neighborhood. I guess things change pretty quickly at that age.

Some fifteen years or so after that, while I was still on parole for the rape, my brother came to visit me at my Seattle apartment, and gave me an interesting update on the Jeff Polite saga.

Bruce told me that he had run into Jeff recently at a fast food restaurant, and decided to confront him about the incident back in 1978, when we were boys.

It seems that my brother had decided over the intervening years that Jeff was masturbating that day in his bedroom while he held onto the wire. It wasn't just a „retardo” thing; it was a „perverto” thing! So my brother asked Jeff for an apology right there in the restaurant.

My brother told me that Jeff very nervously denied even recognizing him. But Bruce was certain that Jeff not only recognized him, but was guilty as hell too, because of the way he was acting. „Scared shitless”, was the way my brother put it.

Bruce, unlike me, had grown into a fairly imposing man. He was over six feet and easily more than 200 pounds. He liked to keep scruff on his face (which made him look macho) and carried a concealed 38 automatic of some impressive sort, because he could. He was the type of person who would „accidentally” let people see he was packing heat, just for the fun of it.

But when I suggested to my brother that perhaps Jeff was just scared over being so rudely confronted by a scary man in public, my brother insisted again, „No, he's a perve, and he knew I knew it! I wanted to blow his stinkin' head off right there!”

That was just the way my brother talked, which after 15 years in prison didn't impress me very much. I suggested again that maybe Jeff genuinely did not recognize him, and even if he was masturbating back then, so what?

Big mistake on my part that, „so what?” bit. My brother got angry at once (which he tried to hide as usual, but I could tell as easy as I could when we were kids that he was about to be rash). So, I tried to clean it up by asking him to tell me again what actually happened back in '78 in Jeff's bedroom. What he told me was pretty much the same thing he told me back then, except now with a little more insite to Jeff's motives.

Bruce said that Jeff „molested” him, even though he kept his privates in his pants, and never touched my brother on his.

I tried to question my brother about what he meant by „molested”, but he could only tell me the rote responses that someone might get from a book, or magazine article.

„He used me”, my brother said.

„He asked you to hold a wire. You didn't even know what he was doing then, even if you do now”, I retorted.

„It doesn't matter if I didn't know. I was just a kid and he molested me!”

We clearly weren't communicating. To me my brother was just spouting off all the classic „victim” expressions but saying nothing about the reality of what happened at all.

What I wanted to do, but sensed danger so I didn't, was remind my brother of the times he himself „molested” younger children even before we ever met Jeff. (By my brother's own definition of course. As far as I know, my brother has never really molested anyone. But, as kids we sometimes „played doctor” or „spin the bottle” with other children, which involved a bit more explicitly sexual behavior that what Jeff had done with the wire. Jeff was, after all, mentally only a kid himself even though he lived in a man's body.)

So, instead I reminded my brother about the time he was „molested” by George Worley, who pumped air up his butt with a bicycle pump. George was 15, and Bruce was 10 at the time. George became an „Eagle” in the boyscouts, which is how my brother and I knew him, he was in our troop 462, and at least I heard George was some sort of commander in the U.S. Navy stationed in Hawaii.

I asked, „How come you don't go demand an apology from George?”

That was enough to send my brother storming out the door of my apartment. I guess I'm lucky he didn't „blow my stinkin' head off”.

(No disrespect, bro'! I just never could take you seriously; you were my younger brother after all! I love you and miss you dearly!!)

My brother died from a sudden heart attack in 2006. I learned after his death that he believed I „molested” him too, and was even going to write a book about it. I wish people could see how victim hysteria creates more victims than it will ever help. My brother's emotional trauma was real. The reason for his trauma was a fabrication of the worst kind, and not real at all.

(Originally written by Joseph E. Duncan III - March 31, 2011 – 1 am

Nine Lives And An Evil Monster

When I was living in Fargo I once saw a cat get hit by a careless taxi driver while I was on my way home from a movie with a lady-friend. The incident took place on a residential street, with no other traffic. The cab obviously did not try to avoid hitting the cat, and then afterwards didn't even slow down, much less stop to see if the cat was okay. My reaction was to immediately slam on my brakes, even though I was not the one who hit the cat, and I tried to jump out of my car to help so quickly that I got tangled by the seat belt, which I had forgotten to unfasten. When I finally managed to get to the cat laying in the middle of the road it was still trying to run, even though its head was completely caved in and one eye was hanging by the nerve outside its socket. Needless to say, for all its effort, the poor cat only managed to move its legs in jerky sporatic motions, as if it were trying to run in its sleep. My lady-friend, Joni, was soon approaching from the other side of the car, and when I heard her ask if the cat was okay I bid her desperately to stay away, knowing she was a cat lover too, like me. I didn't want her to see the terror of what I was seeing. I asked Joni to get an old towel out of the trunk of my car, which I then used to wrap the cat up and carry it on the side of the road. By that time the cat had stopped trying to run, but I could tell that it still labored to breath for several minutes more. I cried silently to myself as I waited with my hand on the cat's fir for it to stop breathing. I wanted to comfort it, and contemplated breaking its neck in order to end its misery. But, fortunately, the cat stopped breathing on its own before I could even figure out the logistics of doing so. I then picked up the dead cat and carried it back to my car, where I placed it, still wrapped in the old towel, into the trunk. When Joni asked me what I was doing with the cat off to the side of the road, I told her that I was just waiting for it to die. In truth, I didn't want her to see that I was crying. We ended up taking the cat to a small strip of woods next to a cemetery for people, where we buried the cat, towel and all, in a shallow grave. We made a hurried marker out of some sticks, said a prayer, then left. Joni and I both watched the classifieds for a few days, looking for any ads for a lost cat. We also drove through the neighborhood where the cat had been hit looking for any lost cat signs, but saw none. Of course, this entire time I was only pretending to be concerned about the cat and its possible owners, all the while fantasizing secretly about raping children and terrible things like that. I don't actually remember any of these fantasies, or feeling like I was faking anything, but I must have been, because I am an evil monster after all, or so they tell me.

What Happened In Prison – Part IV: The Queen

„I will remember, because a queen can never forget.” - Juana of Castile, in The Last Queen, by: C.W. Gortner

By the time I arrived at WSP (Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington) in early 1990, I was a full-fledged and completely weaned prison queen. All my nervousness about being seen as queer had left me, and was replaced by the more normal social nervousness over meeting new people and adapting to a new environment.

As strange as it may seem, I was actually looking forward to Walla Walla, even though it was reputedly one of the most violent prisons in the country. I was fed up with all the petty games and attitudes from the wannabe prison (MICC), and hope WSP would be better. I had no concern at all for my safety because I was, after all, Big Al's girl and nobody messed with a fully represented queen in a real prison.

Right away as soon as I stepped off the chain-bus I knew things were going to be different. The guards actually treated me with politeness and respect. They even took me into a private area in order to strip search me out of view of the other inmates. And I could have sworn the guards themselves were looking at me lasciviously, though that was possibly just my own devious imagination at work.

From the intake processing area all the inmates from the chain-bus were taken to a temporary housing unit for a few days of observation before we would be classified for regular housing in the prison.

As we were being dressed out in the temporary unit (given clothes to replace the orange transport coveralls) an inmate I'd never met before covertly gave a full pack of cigarettes along with a message from Big Al that he would see me at mainline (in the chow hall).

I passed some of the cigarettes out to other inmates who I had befriended on the bus and they in turn passed them out to their friends. Suddenly I was very popular and it felt strange.

As a queen I had to get used to people I'd never met before talking to me as if they knew all about me. I was a celebrity of sorts since people talked about almost everything I did. For example, almost everyone I met had heard about how I „dumped” Kato, the kung fu expert and asian gang leader at MICC and „lived to tell about it”. They also knew that I had broken into the furniture factory offices at McNeil Island and „planted a computer virus” in order to avenge Big Al.

Usually it was the things people „knew” about me that I didn't even know about myself that were the most interesting. Things like:

„Hey, Jazzi! I heard you turn tricks with the turn keys!”

Oh, I didn't know that.

„Hey, Jazz! I heard you got AIDS...”

Oh, really?

That AIDS rumor actually followed me all the way to Kootenai county jail in Idaho in 2005. The FBI asked my attorneys to get an HIV test for me because they „heard” that I was HIV positive from a former cellmate of mine. Ya, right. (That particular inmate used to sit on his bunk and masturbate while he watched me exercising in the cell. He was not my cellmate for very long – after I told Big Al what he was doing)

All this attention was a bit disconcerting for me at first, especially considering my so-called „antisocial” propensities. But I ultimately learned to relish it as much as anyone would, revelling in all the positive attention while ignoring the negative; usually.

I got almost no harrassment at all from the other inmates. The worst insult I got came from a prison guard who waved a hot dog at me as I was going through the serving line in the chow hall to get my food one day.

„Do you like weaners?” He asked, apparently to get a laugh from the other inmates around because there weren't any other guards within earshot.

If an inmate had been stupid enough to attempt to insult me like that I probably would have picked up one of the hot dogs off my own tray and thrown it at him while saying something like, „sure, but I like to share!”

Something like that might have been what flashed through my mind as I stopped and just glarred at him. The guard must have seen something in my eyes at that moment that frightened him, because I remember seeing the fear flash just for a moment on his face before he covered it up with a nervous laugh and a sudden order to, „keep moving!”

The fear on his face, even if just for a moment, told me he was a coward. So I dismissed him and the entire incident. By the time I got to my table, in the „blacks only” area of the chow hall, I had forgotten all about him. But he unfortunately didn't forget about me.

Later that night I was called out of the unit six dayroom and escorted by a group of three guards down into the counselor's office area; a secluded area after hours with all the lights turned off. I didn't understand why I was there until one of the guards turned on me suddenly and glowered in my face.

He said menacingly, „If you ever look at me like that again I'll find a way to mess you up!” (an exact quote by the way)

It took me a full second or two to realize that I was being threatened. And then another second or two to figure out who the guard was and why he was threatening me.

„Oh!” I said „You're that guard from the kitchen!” I was smiling at my own realization.

Yes, smiling. I thought the threat was funny because it was so pathetically childish. I actually chuckled, as I said, „Is that all you want?”

The guard said, „Yah, just remember what I said”. Then he ordered me to return to the unit dayroom unescorted. So, I turned and started to leave.

But, as I walked away I couldn't resist a parting shot, I said over my shoulder, „You don't know who you're messing with; I'm not some duck...”

...that you can intimidate, is what I'd meant to say. But, before I could finish the guard cut me off by yelling at me – he had just gotten exactly what he wanted from me all along; a „threat”. In that „authoritative command” voice, that cowards like him love, he screamed, „Lock up! Now!”

I had fallen for the same kind of trap that got Big Al shipped out of MICC. It's an easy trap to fall into, even if you know about it. Fortunately I was already in a maximum security prison so I couldn't be shipped out. But I could go to the hole, and that's exactly what happened. I returned to my cell and after a few minutes the goon-squad arrived, and cuffed me up to take me to segregation. The guard from the kitchen was with them and kept making comments that were intended to get me to „resist”. But I knew better than to give him a chance to „goon” me also. (Getting „gooned” is prison slang for getting beat up by the guards. All they need is the smallest excuse in order to make the paperwork look good and then they can beat you up all they want. But they need that excuse, however small, before they can get away with it. And don't think for a moment that it's just a few „corrupt” guards that do this. It's part of how „the system” works, and just one of the hypocritical aspects that made me hate it so much. Rodney King knows what I'm talking about!)

At the disciplinary hearing the guard from the kitchen denied waving the hot dog at me and threatening me, of course. And so, more evidence of my „antisocial” behavior in prison was added to my official record.

And that was the story of the worst insult I received. But the greatest compliment came from a young inmate in the unit six shower room.

The showers were only open for a couple of hours each evening after mainline (chow). It is a single large tiled room with about 25 or 30, or so, shower heads spraying water from the walls. No stalls, of course, and a guard booth right there in the shower so there'd be no funny business. There was always a crowd in the showers.

I used to usually go with Big Al as my „escort”, more for symbolism than because there was any real danger from other inmates. Sometimes I'd even go by myself, but I liked having my „man” with me.

I'd always be sure to prepare ahead of time by putting on a pair of jocky underpants in a way that allowed me to keep my „embarrassment” tucked up between my legs in the shower, with my testicles actually held up inside the abdomen.

I wore these „panties”, as I called them, for the whole time that I was in the shower, and would discretely wash under them to get myself clean.

So, anyway, one day, as I was drying off and getting ready to leave the shower room, a young inmate standing next to me who was also just getting out of the shower, suddenly asked me a question completely out of the blue.

Shyly, he asked, „Do they let you take female hormones here?”

I answered in my girliest voice, „I wish!”

Then I wondered why he would ask a question like that. I didn't know him and have never spoken to him before. And I thought it was obvious, by how flat chested I was, that I'd never used female hormones. So, out of curiosity I asked him, in turn, „Why do you ask?”

Without hesitation he answered, „Because you look so much like a real woman with no clothes on”. And then he quickly moved away, apparently embarrassed by his own comment.

It was obvious that he did not intend to flatter me. I could have kissed him right there in the shower, if he hadn't run away so quick. To this day I can think of no time that I was ever more proud of how my body looked.

I just realized that I forgot to tell about how I got moved into the same unit, and even the same cell, with Big Al.

At first they put me in a special unit that was still in general population but had only one-man cells. It was in that unit that I got to meet and know a legendary prison queen named Star.

There's really not much to tell about my meeting Star, except that she was past her girly prime and no longer bothered to even try to appear effeminate, though everyone still called her Star and refered to her in the feminine.

In her day Star was a legend. Not for her good looks (she was too big and muscular to ever pass for a real girl) but because of her principles – you couldn't be a more „solid” convict than Star was – and her exploits.

Once Star grabbed a guard and put a shank to his throat and paraded him around the prison demanding „justice” for some violation of her principles. (Perhaps he made the mistake of waving a hot dog at her provocatively!)

Needless to say, Star was one of those people who was never going to get out of prison. But I loved and respected her as a human being all the same. She never once ever tried to disrespect me and she taught me a lot about what it was like to be a queen in the „old days”.

She befriended me more out of love and respect for Big Al than for me, I suppose. But that was because she knew that if Big Al respected me (and he did) then that meant she should too. So she did.

Well, as much as I appreciated being in the same unit with a legend (I'd heard a lot about Star long before I ever got to Walla Walla) the only unit I wanted to be in was the one Big Al was in. So, the first chance I got I requested to be moved to Six Wing.

That chance came at my first „unit team” hearing about one month after arriving at WSP. They asked me about how I intended to protect myself from other inmates and I told them that I had „a friend” who would make sure nobody messed with me.

Then they asked, „What if someone bigger than your friend comes along?”

And I looked them straight in the eye, and said, „There is no one bigger than my friend”. And I meant it, though I was thinking more about Big Al's reputation than the size of his arms.

The move was not only approved, but they actually moved me directly into Big Al's cell, even though I never once told them who „my friend” was. Like I said, everyone knew I was Big Al's girl!

So, sans the first month, the entire time I was in WSP I lived with Big Al. We had a four-man cell all to ourselves for almost the entire time, with only a few brief interruptions – one of which I've already mentioned (the masturbator who thought I had AIDS).

Our cell was in the middle if a bottom tier and directly in front of a guard both. But the guard both was empty and locked up every night after lock down at nine o'clock. So, the guard both never seriously interfered with our love making at all.

And we certainly made love. Almost every night after lockdown, I would start by giving Big Al a therapeutic back rub (his huge muscles almost demanded to be massaged) that would always end up being a sensual back rub. I'd rub his back before we had sex, and he'd rub mine afterwards, if I wanted him too. But usually I'd be so wore out that all I wanted to do was climb into my own bunk and go to sleep (or masturbate alone, see below).

In case you're wondering how two people with male „equipment” can make love as a man and a woman, then let me tell you. After Big Al was good and relaxed from me rubbing his back (actually, shoulders and arms mostly) he would roll over onto his back and I'd spend some time working on his chest and arms from the front.

I'd usually be either naked with my penis out of site between my legs or wearing a sexy pair of women's panties (I had several pair that were more or less homage gifts from another inmates, who were lucky if they ever even got to see me wearing them). So Big Al would be at full attention in anticipation of what was coming by this time.

After working his front muscles for a while I'd begin massaging his legs and groin area, then bend over and begin giving him a dick massage with my tongue and lips. This was more for his pleasure than mine though. I got my pleasure soon enough.

Then after we were both so hot with anticipation that we could hardly contain ourselves, I would lay down next to him with my back to his front, „spoon” style and we'd entangle our legs together in a special way that we both agreed was „the best way”, then I'd reach back and guide his manhood into my „pussy”.

And he would fuck the hell out of me. But not violently, just passionately. All the time kissing on my neck, my shoulders and even my ear. I would also frequently twist my upper body around, while he was still buried deep up inside of me, so we could kiss, deep and wet, on the mouth.

We'd fuck like this for up to a half an hour, sometimes even more and then Big Al would release inside of me, usually in the midst of a deep passionate kiss, which was how I liked it. And then we'd sometimes just lay together while he went semi-soft with his dick still inside my ass, enjoying the profound intimacy of it. This was the human intimacy that the „system” had tried to rob from both of us, but which we difiantly stole back every night we could.

As for my own orgasm; I would usually wait until after I'd climbed into my own bunk then slowly stroke myself to an orgasm while I could still „feel” Big Al inside of me. This bothered Big Al because he wanted to be sure that I was being satisfied too, and he always would assure me that he didn't mind if I masturbated while we were together. But, he himself would never touch me „down there”.I think it was because he wouldn't touch me there that I prefered to wait to pleasure myself alone. I wanted to be his woman, and jacking off in front of a man just didn't „feel right”. So, I prefered to do it alone.

These were my happiest days in prison, easily. Big Al and I shared a special status in WSP that most staff and inmates seemed to respect. It was as though everyone knew what it was we were „stealing back” from the system and honored our courage for doing so.

It took courage because the one thing the „system” tries to destroy more than any other is the human spirit. So Big Al and I were making ourselves targets by simply daring to express our love for each other out in the open.

We were together as much as we could be, on the yard, in the gym, in the chow hall. And most people seemed to appreciate what we represented. Even the guards (usually) and especially the higher ranking guards (sgts. and lts.) who had been around in the „old days”, seemed to really understand the value of what Big Al and I stood for. Which is why I was moved directly into Big Al's cell, and why, unlike at MICC, we were seldom harassed as a couple.

Big Al would go to work during the day out in the Industries administration offices (they'd hired him right away because of his experience – and connections no doubt – in Industries at MICC). So we'd always have money to keep extra food and cigarettes in our cell (I didn't quit smoking until I got out to WWCC about a year later). I even kept track of big Al's money (or „finances” if you can call an inmate account that) since I had so little „money” of my own.

I did not have to work because I have a „bad back” (I have a very slight curve in my spine, a.k.a. scoliosis, that can only be seen by measuring an x-ray. It never really bothers me, but it makes a great excuse for getting out of work in prison). So, I'd stay in the cell and read, or watch TV. Or, I'd go to the library or big yard for something to do. I also attended weekly Yoga classes and an occasional college course if I saw one that interested me on the school schedule.

It was a stress free existence and with my „man” always by the side it was as close to freedom as anyone will ever get in prison. Maybe even freer in a way than what many people have outside of prison.

But I was only inside WSP (the actual penitentiary) for a little more than a year before I'd gotten enough security points back to be transfered to a „medium security” prison again. Big Al took longer to get his security points back for some reason, but I don't remember why.

So, I got transfered by myself to WWCC, which is literally right next door to WSP, though in a completely seperate compound. Big Al and I decided to accept this temporary seperation because we knew it would only be for a few months.

Because WWCC was medium security instead of max, I had a few more privileges and a little more freedom (not much) than inside WSP. But, without Big Al around, I also had more time on my hands (alone time), so my deviant fantasies came back (which had all but left me while I was with Big Al, that is unless you consider transexuality to be „deviant”). I had no real interest in having sex with other inmates, since none could approach what I had with Big Al. So my fantasies turned once more to children, only this time I didn't even try to resist them. I had no reason to.

And since I couldn't just stay in my cell and masturbate all day, I ended up enrolling in school fulltime (at WWCC I was required to „program” in one was or another, „bad back” or not). They had much better college level course offerings from the local community college. So I started work on an AA in general studies and got straight 'A's” and on the Dean's list frequently.

The only thing interesting that happened during this alone time (without Big Al) was that I managed to catch a mouse in my cell with a homemade „humane” mouse trap, that actually worked. I had made it out of two one-pint icecream containers, a rubber band and a paperclip. I was proud of this feat, though the mouse soon escaped to be never seen again. Apparently some mice at least can learn quicker than most humans.

Oh, I also saw a full grown tomcat attempting to mount a very young kitten just outside my cell window once. I thought that was interesting; a child molesting cat, in prison! Hmmm, go figure that one out!

Westly Allen Dodd, a man convicted for raping and murdering young boys, was hanged inside WSP while I was at WWCC. The execution was meant to send a „message” to other would be child-killers; like me. I got the message all right, loud and clear. But I don't think it was the one I was supposed to get. The execution only strenghtened my resolve to get even with the "System".

After about six months Big Al got moved out to WWCC and directly into my cell. I'd been living alone with no cellmate until Big Al came... and came... and came... (joke).

While I was still inside WSP I had taken out a free personal ad in the SGN (Seattle Gay News) and started writing and occasionally calling the men who answered my ad. That's how I met Dave.

Dave drove across the state (from Seattle) to visit me for the first time while I was at WWCC. We became fast friends.

Dave ended up hiring an attorney to „look into my case”. The attorney began reviewing my prison records and basically learned what I already knew; I was being shafted by the system.

So the attorney started writing some letters to the ISRB, to basically let them know that he was representing me and that they had better start obeying their own directives (i. e. the law).

With the help of letters written to the ISRB by the attorney that my new friend, Dave, hired, I was finally found parolable again in the Summer of '93. But, this time there was a catch. I had to "map out" before my parole. That meant that there was a list of supposedly progressive steps to more freedom, and programs to prepare my for the streets, that I had to take before actually being paroled.

Needless to say, it was years yet before I get paroled. And even then it took many more letters and actual litigation (to procure an order from a judge) before the ISRB consented to my release. In the mean time I was being transported (i.e. shipped) all over the state from one institution to another, supposedly to fulfill my "map" requirements.

This "merry-go-round" ride (a tactic they use to try to keep inmates from being able to file litigation) kept me from completing the one program that would have really helped after I got out. I was on my last semester of classes needed to complete an A.A. degree in General Studies when the merry-go-round ride started. So, it didn't keep me from filing litigation (Dave's lawyer was doing that for me), but it did keep me from finishing the three-credit English class I needed to get my degree. And, it also interrupted the Spanish II class I was taking, which would have been directly transferable toward a university degree years later. With those Spanish credits I would have a B.A. in Computer Science today. But, instead I had to go for a B.S. degree instead which took more time (and money, of course). Apparently their "map" program - slash,merry-go-round - was more important.

And so began the next chapter of my prison adventure, where I managed to fight my way out at last, with the help of a friend on the outside, a lawyer, and no small deception.

To be continued in... Part V: The Merry-go-round

What Happened In Prison – Part III: The Transition

It has been several months since my last "What Happened In Prison"-posting. I have been working on this, "Part III: The Transition", during that time, having thrown away at least three nearly complete attempts and starting over from scratch each time. This has been the most difficult time in my life. It was the period between 1987 and 1990, when the circumstances of my incarceration finally forced me to accept that I would never go home again, and in my mind: never go free.

My chains had become psychological, and they were forged as surely as carbon steel to be completely invulnerable to any attempt on my part to break them. And it was against these invisible bonds that I began to rebel, and hence unwittingly define my identity and role in society; that of a social outcast, a pariah, and a "dangerous monster". It was a painful time of transition for me, filled with the raw (newly formed) emotions of betrayal, and the beginning of my desire for revenge against "the machine".

Revenge was the only salve available to me that could ease my pain. In this premable I wish to achieve two things: First to explain why this posting has been so long in coming. And, second, to establish the proper mood (solemn) and perhaps add a little deserved gravity to the events that follow. You are about to read (or not) about the actual birth of a real life "monster" from the very womb of social ignorance. Or, to put it a bit less delicately, what follows is a description of the Beast itself, taking a shit.)

"Ignorance is the womb of monsters." - Henry W. Beecher

In 1987, seven years after my arrest and incarceration for forcing another boy – two years younger than me – to take off his clothes and put my dick in his mouth (rape) I got an unexpected break in the fifteen-and-a-half-year-sentence imposed by the Parole Board. The Parole Board was ordered to adjust the sentences they set, and to bring them within the sentencing range set by the Sentencing Reform Act (SRA) in Washington state. The SRA would have set my range at five to seven years, maximum (under no circumstances was I supposed to serve more than seven years, according to the SRA).

I had already served over seven years under the "old guidelines", so the Parole Board (now called the ISRB, or, Indeterminate Sentencing Review Board) was forced to reduce my time and find me parolable. All I needed was an approved parole plan and I could go home, three years sooner than expected! Or, so I was led to believe. It would end up being more than another seven years before I managed to "fight my way out" of prison with the help of litigation filed on my behalf by an attorney. But that comes later in this story.

At the time when I was found parolable, in 1987, I still believed that someday I would be able to go home and the nightmare that began because of what I did when I was a confused 16-year-old boy would then come to an end. Yes, I was still that naive.

So, I submitted parole plans to live with my mother in the same house where I was arrested in the front yard seven years earlier. My plan was to get a job, working with computer and/or electronics repair work – skills I had learned in prison – and to pay my mother rent. This would have allowed my mom to keep the house which she was otherwise losing because of unpaid mortage, assuming the plans were approved. My counselor, Mr. Dennis Wheeler (a name I came to remember because of the subversive role he played in bringing about the addition of many more years to my already extraordinary sentence) assured me that these were good parole plans. He also assured me that all the subsequent plans I submitted through him were all good as well, while he simultaneously and covertly recommended to the Parole Board that all my plans be denied - which I didn't learn about until years later when a lawyer disclosed to me Mr. Wheeler's "unofficial" reports to the Parole Board that I had no way of knowing about. In these reports Mr. Wheeler recommended even that my parole plans to the Interaction Transition House ("I.T. House") also be denied. His recommendations were not based on disciplinary problems or even because of lack of structure in the parole plans. The I.T. House plans were considered the best parole plans a person could have at that time.

It took up to two years to be accepted by the program and I had to participate in the weekly I.T. House meetings inside the prison to win their acceptance. But Mr. Wheeler was "concerned" about my "unstable sexual behavior", which is prison-admin-speak for "flamboyant homosexuality". Even though I never got in trouble in prison for having sex. Most "out" prison homosexuals have more "504's" - sex infractions – than they can count. I never got one, not even after over 17 years in prison population, most of the time being "out" as a homosexual a.k.a. "queen". Yes, I had sex in prison. But not lasciviously. Most of the time I only had sex regularily with just one person, "my man". I maintained and adamantly respected a monogamous relationship for almost the entire time I was out of the closet in prison. I was "Big Al's girl", and everyone knew it.

Apparently, Mr. Wheeler and later the I.S.R.B. decided that flamboyant homosexuals were dangerous to society. Even though the prison psychologist, who in her official report to the I.S.B.R., wrote that because of my efforts to confront my sexual identity, I was a "much smaller risk to re-offend" than I was before. The psychologist's name was Dr. Sally Sloat, a name I remember because of her persistent efforts to convince the I.S.B.R. that I was not "sexually unstable", but actually a better candidate for parole than I had ever been.

When the I.S.R.B. first found me parolable in 1987, my first concern was to make sure that I would not re-offend. So, on my own initiative, I began meeting with Dr. Sloat regularly in order to discuss my treatment options on parole, and my current attempts at self-treatment. The prison had previously turned down all my request for treatment because I had "too much time left". So, seeing Dr. Sloat was my only option, which I took voluntarily, and under my own initiative. When I told Dr. Sloat about how my fantasies of letting men use me as a woman seemed to make my fantasies about children go away, she revealed to me that all of my "psych-tests" (e.g. MMPI) indicated that I had "strong feminine characteristics". She encouraged me to "explore my sexual identity", as a way of understanding and controlling my deviant sexual fantasies about children. So, with the help and support of Dr. Sloat, and "my man", who Dr. Sloat knew about, I came out of the closet, specifically as a transsexual, which translates as "queen" in prison.

My man, Big Al, was an intelligent, well-educated (with a BA in psychology that he earned in prison) and highly respected convict throughout the state prison system at the time. He was also the prison imam (muslim leader) and devoutly dedicated to his beliefs. The entire time I lived with Big Al, he always performed his daily prayers and observed all of the other muslim religious conventions, except one: he fucked the hell out of me almost every night that he could, and I loved it! As for how a devout muslim, an imam no less, could possibly reconcile such a serious offense against muslim practice as homosexuality, all I can say is that Big Al was not homosexual at all. To him, I was just a "female trapped in a male body", but I also had a very female-ish body and he never treated me as anything but a female. When other muslims confronted him about his relationship with me (which he never tried to hide) he would tell them: "It's between me and Allah”. In other words, none of their business. And he backed this up with several sutras straight from the Qur'an.

Big Al took a huge risk to his reputation as a muslim in order to represent me (be "my man") in prison. But he did it because he supported Dr. Sloat's idea that I needed to establish my sexual identity if I wanted to have any hope of escaping my deviant sexual past. He knew all about my crime and about how I was bothered so much by persistent sexual desires for children. In fact, he was the one who initially suggested I go see Dr. Sloat, and told me I could trust her. He did not pretend to be qualified to give me the help I needed. But when Dr. Sloat suggested that coming out of the closet would help me get over my pedophilia tendencies, Big Al cared enough to support my efforts, even though he knew well that he was risking more than just his reputation; a lot more! Because of his open relationship with me, Big Al lost his prefered housing status at McNeil Island. He also ended up losing his custody security level (from medium to closed), which caused him to be transfered back to the state penitentiary on the other side of the state (away from his family). And he is still in prison to this day, having been found parolable himself more than six years ago, but yet to be released on parole, perhaps again because of his relationship to me. But, the thing that impressed me the most, personally, was when he risked his life in order to protect me.

In a move clearly intended to separate me from "my man" and thereby putting me in danger from other inmates, prison officials placed me in a unit where Federal inmates were being housed (on a contract with the BOP). Even though Big Al could receive none of the conventional benefits of representing me any more (namely, sex) because of our seperation, he nonetheless let it be known that I was his girl, and if anyone messed with me they would answer to him. He did this after I had made a mess out of trying to solicit the biggest, baddest, and handsomest Federal inmate in my new unit to be "my man", and represent me. His name was Kato (or at least that was what he liked to be called), a tall and muscular half-Asian, half-black man who lived in Korea as a youth and studied Kung Fu since childhood. He was an enforcer for the Asian mafia in America (not necessary the U.S.), or at least that's what he and his "crew" claimed. Whatever he was, he was clearly a dangerous man. He practiced his Kung Fu Katas (fighting exercises) every day, but was forbidden by the institution to teach other inmates. He talked all the time about Kung Fu, and about his time in the Special Forces, and about all the special training he received. He was especially proud of a form of Kung Fu called "Praying Mantis" that he claimed to have learned while he was AWOL in Cambodia, from traveling priests who took him in to exchange styles (he taught them several of the styles he learned as a kid in exchange for being taught the Praying Mantis style). He claimed that he also taught Kung Fu in America, and he himself had learned from various masters, though he always insisted that he was not a master because of his lack of spiritual reverence, not because of his lack of skill. I believed all of it.

So, I considered having Kato as my "man" a step up from Big Al; at least that's what I thought at first. But Kato was (surprise, surprise) only interested in using me for sex (and letting his "crew" use me). It didn't take me long to figure that out and as soon as Kato made a clear breach of contract (by not defending my honor as he should have), I bravely dumped him. I say "bravely" because getting dumped by a prison queen is a hundred times worse than getting dumped by a real woman, and Kato totally did not expect me to do it. When I told him to his face that I no longer considered him as my "man", I saw that same demon flash behind his eyes that I came to know so well behind my own not much later. He would have killed me right there, if he could have gotten away with it. But instead, he ordered his "crew" to teach me a lesson on his behalf. I found out later that he was under "orders" from his mafia bosses to stay out of trouble, which is why he did not just "bitch slap" me right then and there. And that was when Big Al stepped back into the picture. But when Kato found out that "some state inmate" was speaking up for me he sent his "crew" after Big Al instead. But, what he didn't realize (and neither did I at the time) was that Big Al had a "crew", too - a much bigger "crew"! So, Kato and Big Al ended up negotiating peace terms (that amounted to an apology to me, but without reparations, from Kato for allowing his "crew" to disrespect me) down in a back room of the prison laundry (Kato's turf). I was genuinely afraid for Big Al, and warned him not to negotiate on Kato's turf. But Big Al assured me that Kato only thought it was his turf. Well, things worked out, or at least Kato and his "crew" never messed with me after that (and neither did anyone else).

For a while at least I was probably the most chaste "queen" in prison population in the whole country! Big Al and I could only see each other on the prison big yard, where we met almost every day, and spent hours, just talking, as we sat on "our throne" (a bench seat that overlooked the yard) that other inmates left open for us. He agreed to be my "man" only if I agreed to give him say about who I had sex with, and I could only have sex with people he knew well enough to know for sure that they did not have AIDS, which was almost nobody. I only had sex with one other person on one or two occasions during this time, but I won't say who, though Big Al, of course, knew.

The harassment from the prison officials kept up. As part of my transition from convict to prison queen I had quit my job in the electronics shop in order to take a job in Institutional Industries, so I could work with Big Al. He was a data entry clerk and I became a programmer in the same office. But no sooner than it took for me to establish my ability to run circles around the other so-called programmers (I single-handedly cleared out the six month backlog of dBase report requests in less than a month), I was "fired" by the institution. Not because of anything I did – the industries staff loved me since they could now request complex reports that they could never get before. But, I was fired because I "knew more about computers than the institution's go-to-guy" which made me, supposedly, a "threat to security". Of course, the real reason, again, was a thinly veiled attempt by prison officials to seperate me and Big Al. Even though we weren't in the same living unit any more, our reputation as a couple (i.e. lovers) was growing stronger all the time. And that, for some reason, bothered the hell out of the prison officials. Also, around this time (1989), I was scheduled for another parole hearing.

My counselor (no longer Mr. Wheeler) assured me that it was a necessary routine hearing to reconfirm my paroleability status after having all my parole plans denied over the last two years. So, I was completely unprepared to defend myself when the board members started asking questions about my "risk to re-offend", questions they had never asked before, not even when they found me paroleable two years earlier. Dr. Sloat was at the hearing (she insisted on being there, even though my counselor tried to discourage her from appearing – apparently, she understood the real purpose of the hearing, even though I did not). But, even though she adamantly backed up her report, saying that I was a much less risk to re-offend than before, the ISRB revoked my paroleability and added the first of several more extension years to my sentence!

I would say that this was the proverbial "straw that broke the camel's back", but it was more like a ton of bricks when a straw might actually have been enough! After all my efforts over the years to straighten out my life were thwarted, by one broken promise after another by the "system" to "help me get better", and after I was betrayed by the sex offender therapist who tried to use his authority to coerce my mother into having sex with him, and after this same therapist wrote an almost completely fabricated report to the court (in order to protect himself from backlash) that caused me to get such an extreme sentence for such a juvenile crime, and after I was then repeatedly raped and assaulted by other inmates (until I learned how to protect myself) while prison officials denied my requests for protective custody, and after I did everything I could to "heal myself", even going to the prison psychologist as a last resort, and after my mother lost her house because my parole plans to help support her were denied, and long after the rest of my family had pretty much given up on trying to support me; after all that, the ISRB dropped this ton of bricks on me out of the blue.

I couldn't "go home" after all. I snapped. To say the least, I snapped. And the stress of trying to identify myself as a woman in a male institution didn't help. I had very little information about what it meant to be a transsexual and the only support I got was from my "man" and from Dr. Sloat. Many of my "friends" stopped talking to me. And most of my new "friends" only wanted one thing (need I say what?). There were times when I was so nervous about trying to appear effeminate in the prison population that it felt like there was a physical force surging through me that made me so stiff I was afraid I'd fall over. I never felt that kind of stress ever before, or ever since. Not even at my death penalty trials or hearings; not even close.

It was around this time that I also started having my first "paranoid delusions". But my rational mind, and self-education in psychology, kept me from letting the delusions take control. No matter how convincing the delusions seemed – and they were very convincing – I was always able to reason them away. Or, at least out of my conscious mind. Who knows what havoc they might have wrought unconsciously.

When I mentioned these delusions to Dr. Sloat, she recommended that I see the prison psychiatrist. Which I did, and he prescribed some kind of psychoactive drug. But I didn't like how the pills made me feel (like my brain was being mildly electrocuted), so I stopped taking them and rarely spoke of my delusions with anyone after that. They didn't seem to interfere with my ability to function, or at least so I thought. Even when I did talk about them I always played them down by calling them "paranoid thoughts", even though I realized they were much more than just "thoughts"; they were a part of my reality (or, a significant aspect of my overall experience at least). So, when the ISRB yanked my paroleability and added several more years to my sentence because of my attempts to understand who I was - and hence, why I was in prison (i.e. why I raped a 14-year-old boy), so that I wouldn't reoffend - yes, I snapped. I cried. I screamed. And I mourned. But, I kept it all inside.

Showing such emotions in prison was a sign of weakness, even for a queen. But Big Al saw my feelings, though at that point I stopped seeing Dr. Sloat and was never honest with a prison psych-doctor ever again. My "man" watched helplessly as all the hurt, and frustration, and betrayal, congealed at last into a dense ball of rage that I buried beneath thoughts of revenge and vindication so that I wouldn't have to feel the pain. It was the only way to make the pain go away, other than religion I suppose. But as much as I respected Big Al's faith in Allah, and as much as I myself had even come to acknowledge a conscious force much greater than myself in the universe - to me, religion was just another "delusion" that I ignored or rationalized away just like all the others. The consolation of revenge became the only source of relief I had.

When I was 17 years old sitting in Pierce county jail awaiting to be tried as an adult for raping that other boy, I wanted to die so bad that I cried for days, almost non-stop. But in lieu of picking up a razor or rigging a noose, I made a pact with myself instead. I always remembered this pact very clearly, because it let me live with what I had done. In the pact I swore to myself that no matter what happened (as a result of the charges against me) over the next several years and that no matter how much I changed as a person, or who I became, that I would never, NEVER, under any circumstance or for any reason, cause such harm to my family again. You see, I wanted to die not because of my shame, or even because of what I faced. I wanted to die because of how I hurt my family, my father, mother, sisters and my brother. For the first time in my life I realized how important my family was to me. So I swore that I would die (kill myself) before I ever did anything to hurt them again. But, when the ISRB revoked my paroleability in 1989, I realized that it was a pact that was impossible to keep. The system would not only never allow me to heal, but my mistake as a 16-year-old kid would be used to keep hurting my family for as long as I lived. And I couldn't kill myself either, because that would hurt my family even worse. So, I changed my original pact to say that I would never hurt my family directly. In other words, neices and nephews and even "friends of the family" were all "off limits" to my "sickness". And I have always honored this version of my pact even at times when it would have been extremely easy not to. But, after 1989, when I realized that my best efforts to fix my life were a vain dream, and that I would never be allowed to stop paying for the mistake I made, I also made a new pact that the modifications to my original pact now allowed, even demanded in a way: I would make society pay, even if that meant I had to die in order to do so.

The purpose of my life changed at that point from repairing the damage I had caused my family (which I finally saw as impossible), to causing as much damage (pain and suffering) to society (which I blamed for not letting me heal) as possible. So now, instead of educating myself to work towards "getting better", I would from now on educate myself to work toward "getting even". In the past, my reason for living – my "pact" for life – was to heal myself and my family. My whole life centered around this effort. Even when things seemed impossibly difficult, I kept going for this hope, this goal.

In 1989, all that changed. My life now centered around a new goal, and a new "pact". From now on I would not only stop trying to "heal" but I would strive to become the "sickest sicko" alive, so I could hurt society with the very "sickness" that it would not let me escape. And, just so the reader understands: I did not blame the ISRB or people like Mr. Wheeler. They were just ignorant servants of "the Beast". And I did not blame the men who raped me at Shelton Corrections Center. They were just victims themselves, even if they didn't think so. I didn't even blame Mike Shepherd, the therapist who sexually assaulted my mother, and lied about me in his "official" report in order to protect himself. No, I blamed the entity that gave rise to all these ignorant people. I blamed the "system", which is the name I gave to the faceless masses usually called "society". I blamed no one person, or group of persons, more than I blamed society itself. I didn't even blame the "secret government" that my mind convinced me (to this day) was behind all criminal behavior and sexual perversion in society. Even if it wasn't a delusion (I still can't honestly say if it is or not), it still could not be held accountable for all of my pain and suffering, because it was "super-secret" after all. But, in my mind at least, society had to held accountable. The "system" could be hurt, if not damaged. I could at least make it cry, to feel some of the pain that it caused me and others like me. If I was never to be allowed to heal, then neither would I let "the Beast" live in peace.

With as much vehemence and emotion that I put into my first pact, I now (in 1989) swore that no matter what happened, no matter how long it took, no matter how my life changed, for better or for worse, and no matter who I became, I would make society pay. And, the only way this pact was able to ease my pain, is if I knew I would keep it. And I knew I would. And I did. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

(Anyone watching the videos I made even the infamous "cabin video" with the Groene children in Montana can see that I did not "want to" do what I was doing. I had to do it – or, at least that's what I believed until Shasta broke the "evil spell" that this "pact" had become for me).

I told Big Al: "Someday, they'll make the mistake of letting me out". He tried to warn me that it was my mistake to think that way. But I didn't listen, and it was something we never spoke about again. He named that part of me "Joe", and "Joe" and Big Al didn't like each other at all. So, when Big Al and I were together, "Joe" stayed in the dungeon I made for him in my mind. Big Al also named my feminine personality. He called her "Jazzi". He said that, sometimes, when she "took over", my whole face changed like a completely different person. A very beautiful person in his opinion also. As best as I can fathom, using the radar of hindsight, "Joe" was "Jazzi's" protector before I'd met Big Al. But "Joe" protected "Jazzi" mostly by keeping her hidden, which Dr. Sloat and Big Al convinced me was not healthy. But, after 1989, "Joe" was the one who went into hiding, and in a strange reversal of roles. "Jazzi" became "Joe's" protector. These were not "split personalities" in the clinical sense (since they were each fully aware of each other), but they were also as distinctly different from each other as any "split personality" could be. I could go on for pages about all the ways "Joe" and "Jazzi" were different. But, to keep it short: they were complete opposites in every way you can imagine. But, one thing "Joe" and "Jazzi" had in common was that they were both emotionally based creatures. Because of this, they both shared the common weakness of all emotionally based people: they were both "intellectually challenged". And that's where "Jet" came in.

Yes, Big Al identified "Jet" also, but I gave "Jet" the name I grew up with because "Jet" was the central personality that held "Joe" and "Jazzi" together. "Jet" provided the intellect and rational basis for all of "Joe" and "Jazzi's" behavior. "Jet" was also the mediator for the other personalities. He realized the importance of "Joe" and "Jazzi" because they gave his life (my life) meaning and motivation. "Jet" needed "Joe" and "Jazzi" as much as they needed him. But "Jet" was all brain and no heart. He could always think clearly, even in the most dramatic situations (such as during a murder, or even a life threatening situation). In such circumstances, "Jet" could easily push "Joe" and "Jazzi" aside and "take care of business" with no emotional "interference" from them.

You might say that "Jet" was the "psychopath", but I think it is misleading to assume he existed independent of emotion. Yes, "Jet" seemed to act and think completely without emotion, but without "Joe" and "Jazzi" (my emotional selves), "Jet" would have never had any reason or motivation to act at all. This is why I say there is no such thing as "a true psychopath" (a.k.a. "an emotionless person") like is so commonly depicted in the movies. Even the most depraved and "monstrous" people are ultimately driven by their emotions. In fact, it is only the intensity of their emotions that enables them to behave so extremely, not the lack of feelings at all.

Though, like me, like all of us to one degree or another, they have split off from their emotional selves. The only thing that makes me unique, perhaps, is that because of my intense efforts to understand my own mind (and problems), and with the help of intelligent and knowledgeable friends like Big Al and Dr. Sloat, I became aware of this "split" from my emotional selves, and thus "Joe", "Jazzi" and "Jet" were "born" into my conscious mind, rather than unconsciously like in most "normal" people. I think that if so-called "psychopaths" do share one trait in common that distinguishes them from "normal" people, then it would be a very high level of self-awareness, which allows them to act without emotion when necessary. But, if that were true, then there are an awful lot more "psychopaths" running around than we'll ever know!

So, regardless of all the philosophical ramifications, in 1989, "Jazzi" stepped into the limelight, and "Joe" retreated to his dungeon. I would no longer concern myself with "getting better" because now I accepted that I would never have a "normal" life. There was never any such a thing. Instead, my primary focus became "survival" and, to me, because I needed "Joe" to survive, and "Joe" needed to be "fed" in order to live, "survival" meant "revenge", because that was all "Joe" cared about: hurting those who hurt me. But, "survival" also meant "love", thanks to one special lady named "Jazzi". So I kept both "alive" inside of me. Alive, but completely separate, which became my bane and my "sickness". (I have been struggling since my arrest and "revelation" in 2005 to unite "Joe", "Jazzi" and "Jet" into one person by essentially "dismantling" the "walls" between them. It is a difficult and often very painful process because it forces me to learn how to live with the pain that the walls were built specifically to "protect" me from. But I've learned that, in the end, the walls come down anyway, ready or not. My goal in life presently is to be as "ready" as possible when they do come the rest of the way down!)

As I already mentioned, Big Al eventually got an infraction for "threatening a staff member" and, although this is considered a serious infraction, it is one that an inmate can never defend himself against because all the staff member has to say is that they "felt threatened" and that defines the "offense". I've know inmates to get this infraction for just glaring at a staff member and, of course, going straight to "the hole" as a result.

In Big Al's case, he told a guard to leave him alone (i. e. stop harassing him), "or else". And that was enough to get him taken to disciplinary segregation ("the hole"), and to lose his "security points" so that he got sent to the maximum security penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington (the other side of the state). And so the prison officials finally had their way. Big Al and I were as "separated" as any two inmates could be in the Washington state "corrections" system. We were in completely separate prisons with different security levels on opposite sides of the state. We couldn't be any more "separated" than that, or so they seemed to think. But I had different ideas.

As soon as I learned that Big Al had been set up and taken down, I came up with a simple plan to join him. I went to the prison "hobby shop" and, in front of "everyone", I climbed up a wall and across an I-beam to a small second story window in the back of the hobby shop that led into the administrative offices for Institutional Industries (were Big Al and I both once worked). It was after hours, though (in the evening), so the offices were empty and "locked up". Rumor has it that I broke into the offices in order to avenge Big Al by planting a virus "bomb" on the computers there. Actually, all I did was take off all my clothes and run around the offices naked while masterbating to fantasies of being "trained" by a bunch of inmates (this was "Jazzi" after all). I was simply enjoying the rare privacy that I had while alone in the offices.

Of course, the real reason I broke into the offices was because I knew I would be "ratted out" (by one of the inmates who saw me climb through the window), and that the resulting infraction would be serious enough to get me sent to Walla Walla, to be with Big Al. And it worked perfectly. Later that same night (after I had "had my fun" in the offices, I climbed back out through the same window and returned to my cell), the "goon squad" (a team of guards) showed up at my cell door and took me straight to the hole.

A few weeks later, I was on the "chain bus" for Walla Walla. And so began the next chapter of my adventures as a prison queen in one of the notoriously "toughest" prisons in the nation, Washington State Penitentiary.

To be continued...                                                                          Part IV: The Queen

The Last Time I Ever Fell In Love

I turned 21 years old in prison protective custody where I sat for six months in a ten-by-six cell while the classification people decided what to do with me. It was a two-man cell, so I could play cards, and even have sex with my cellmate (if you can call being forced against my will to lick his smelly-ass balls while he sucked my dick and masterbated himself, having sex. Some people call it rape, but by then I could hardly tell the difference.) I also managed to study a highschool US History book and then write several essays that were counted as class credits; the last few credits I needed to get my highschool diploma. So I finished highschool in protective custody too. Besides having forced sex and finishing highschool I also fell in love... uh, with a real girl, not my cellmate. Her name was Anne Campbell, and she was my younger brother's 19-year-old x-girlfriend, and mother of his son. She wrote to me and sent me a picture of herself holding her baby boy, C.J., my nephew. My brother left her after getting her pregnant. I don't know why, but I suspect he accused her of getting pregnant in order to snare him. Whatever the reason, he abandoned her with the baby and shortly there after she started writing to me. Maybe she thought if she couldn't have one brother she would settle for the other; I don't know. But, she hinted that I would make a good father for C.J., and she made me feel not just wanted, but needed. I desperately wanted to make up for my brother's abandonment and my own criminal past. I imagined – fantasized really – that the parole board would realize how much she needed me and release me so I could take care of her and her child. In effect, I fell desperately in love with her. My desire to take care of her burned genuinely in my heart. I so desperately felt that my desire to help Anne was so strong that all my “deviant” desires would just go away, IF I could just be her husband. Indeed, I didn't fantasize at all about rape or sex with children while I was in love with Anne. She was my cure, my purpose, my love! I needed her, and I felt she needed me. I thought we would “save” each other, if only they just let me go, so we cold get married. Of course that never happened. I proposed to her in a letter, but she respectfully declined, and then gradually stopped answering my letters. I, of course, was heart broken, again (the first time my heart broke was when my first real girlfriend, Sharon Winget, was forbidden to me to contact by the sexual psychopath treatment program. They said I couldn't write her or call her because she was one of my “victims” because I had sex with her while she was under-age. Never mind that it was consensual, and that she was less than two years younger than me, and that we were both in the same grade together in highschool, and that we wanted to get married after highschool... the SP program rules were clear and inflexible...she was a juvenile, and I was declared an adult by the court at the age of 17, so that made her my “victim”... this was necessary for my “treatment”). The hardest part about being in prison is so tough that nobody even talks about it; it is the pain of being seperated from the people you love, especially when they need your help and you can do nothing. About a year and a half after my proposal to Anne, my nephew, C.J., was repeatedly abused by an army GI that Anne moved in with to help take care of the baby. C.J. Was permanently brain damaged from the abuse. He would never be able to develop mentally beyond the age of two as a result. The man who caused this brain damage by hitting the small boy only served a few months in jail for the abuse, and was then released on probation. If the same man had simply ejaculated in the boy's mouth he would have been sent to prison for 20 years and forced to register as a "sex offender" for life. But instead, to this day, C.J. Must still wear diapers, crawls on hands and knees to get around and can only speak a few simple words. His favorite words are, “I love you”. He is 28 years old.

What Happened In Prison - Part II: The Convict

McNeil Island Corrections Center (MICC) was a “real prison”, compared to the Washington Corrections Center (WCC) that I had been transferred from in 1984. The main cellblocks were five tiers high, with the traditional bars on the front of all the cells. Most of the cells were 15' deep and 20' wide and housed eight men on four sets of bunks, two bunks against opposite walls, and a single toilet and sink against the wet wall at the back of the cell. By this time my hatred for the System had finally begun to take root, and this gave me a little bit of status with the other inmates who called themselves “convicts”. I'd learned to hide my fear behind cold expressions and not let myself be bullied by the more aggressive inmates. Luckily, nobody at MICC knew about how I got raped and “punked out” at WCC in Shelton. I was also finally able to grow a little bit of hair on my face and it seems that went a long way to help deter all but the most hard-core predators. So after a few half-hearted attempts to pressure me by a few of the seasoned predators, I was pretty much left alone. And then something interesting happened. I started to attract the attention of a different kind of inmate. These were older mosre experienced convicts who I guess saw something in my youth and determination to stand up for myself that must have reminded them of themselves when they were younger. Several of these older convicts took me under their wings, which they wouldn't have done if they had not seen me standing up against the pressure. (They were “older” to me but still young themselves, not more than 30 years or so). None of them ever made any sexual advanced toward me, and having their friendship pretty much squelched all the remaining interest I got from would-be attackers. But, more importantly, they taught me how to not just survive, but to thrive in prison. Instead of just waiting for the “System” to assign me a job (like I did at Shelton), they encouraged me to go after a job I wanted. So, after I was assigned to the dish-tank in the kitchen, I went straight to the head-cook and told him I worked as a “cook-five” at Madigan Army Medical Center. And that I wanted to cook instead of wash dishes. (The “cook-five” job was part of the “Youth Summer Employment Program” that I was part of for four months while at the Dyslin's Boy's Ranch, so I did actually know something about institutional cooking). The cook asked me a few questions about safe food handling and how to operate and clean he steam kettles and grills. After I answered his questions he hired me on the spot. That was another “lucky break” for me, because the inmate cooks were all part of the older more experienced convicts in the kitchen who formed a priviledged clique that even the guards gave some respect to (mostly since these older convicts kept things running smoothly, which made the guard's job easier). And the cooks ate well, very well! At MICC there was a butcher's shop attached to the kitchen. And the inmate butchers were part of the cook's clique. So we had steak and eggs for breakfast (not all the time, but often enough), and fed on juicy pork chops while everyone else ate “mexican surprize”. And, of course, we were also “in” with the bakers, so doughnuts and cake were status quo. Actually, I'm exaggerating here a little, but only just a little. We weren't supposed to eat anything except what was on the menu, so we had to be discrete. But I'm not exaggerating at all to tell you that when we walked out of the kitchen with a half dozen “Dagwoods” (delux sandwiches) wrapped in plastic and tied around our waist for our buddies back in the cell blocks, the kitchen guards never shook us down. They knew not to. In the mean time, I had also signed up on the school floor for the Vocational Electronics Program. I had always been fascinated by TV's since I was a kid. Not just the TV programs, but I wanted to know how TV's actually worked. The waiting list for the electronics program was over a year long, but one of my older convict friends suggested that I go out to the electronics shop and talk to the instructor. So I did. Fred Schuneman had built the electronics program himself, almost from scratch. And inmates who signed up for the program usually only did so with little real interest. So when I showed up in his office begging to be moved up the list because I had “always wanted to learn electronics”, he didn't hesitate. I got into the program right away, and did well. I especially liked the hand's on labs, and the self-paced format, which allowed me to zip through the material quickly. Before long, other students started to come to me for help, and I became a sort of unofficial teacher's aide.

So, I was now working in the kitchen and going to school at the same time, which kept me pretty busy. In my spare time, on the weekends, I liked to play volleyball on the yard, and spend time in the library reading books about computers and psychology that I could barely understand. I read about computers for the same reason I was taking electronics lessons. I had seen an Apple IIe computer once, and even though I wasn't even allowed to touch it at the time, I just knew I had to find out how it worked. So I began reading books in the library on computers, and even computer programming, long before the first time I actually touched a computer. I read books on psychology and self-help, because I always wanted to understand my “sexual deviancy” problem. I thought that if I understood how my brain worked then I should be able to “fix it” myself. I definitely wasn't getting any help from the “Correctional System”, and I had decided that “God” wasn't going to do anything for me either. So, my only hope for getting well was to educate myself as much as I could. I took what few psychology and self-help classes were offered by the school, but mostly I familiarized myself with the “psychology and self-help” bookshelf in the library at MICC, as I had once familiarized myself with the “religion and philosophy” bookshelf while I was at WCC. Education was my only hope of ever returning to a “normal” life on the streets, so I took it seriously and read everything I could get my hands on that I thought might help me understand what was “wrong” with me.

Back in the kitchen the institution was starting to cut back on the food budget by reducing how much food inmates could have. One morning as I was frying eggs on the serving line (inmates could have their eggs cooked to order in those days), a guard came and told me to only serve two eggs per inmate. I ignored him and just kept giving the inmates who came through the line as many eggs as they wanted (usually four, sometimes six). After awhile the guard came up and told me again to serve only two eggs per inmate. I said, “Okay”. But when the next inmate asked for four eggs, I gave him four eggs, even while the guard was still standing there. The guard left in a huff. Then, another inmate cook who saw the guard leave in a hurry and heading back toward the cook-supervisor's office, came up to me and asked, “What was that all about?” I told him that the guard had told me to serve only two eggs and I refused to do it. The other inmate cook left, also toward the supervisor's office. A little while later I saw the guard and other inmate cook return to their usual positions on the serving line, which surprized me since I had expected to get pulled from the line and given an infraction for “refusing to obey an order”, or worse. But I finished serving that morning with no further incidents. As it turned out, the other inmate cook also realized that I would probably be infracted and pulled off the line, if not fired. So he went to the supervisor and while the guard was still complaining about my refusal to obey, the other inmate said that if I were pulled from the line none of the other convicts would take my place, and if I were infracted the entire morning crew would quit. So that explained why I didn't get in trouble. Nowadays inmates could never pull a stunt like that. They'd lock down the whole prison first. But back then, the convicts had a lot more power than today. Because I was programming so well, with a full time job and school, and staying out of trouble, I ended up getting moved to “preferred housing”. At first I went to “Two-house”, which was an older cellblock that was only three tiers high and all single man cells. While in Two-house, I began very discretely giving sex pleasure to one two other convicts (I only remember one specifically, but there may have been two). I would come to the TV room during late-night wearing only a long bathrobe, which was commonly done, but I'd only have on a pair of sport-jocky underpants beneath the robe (or sometimes nothing at all), and a pair of thick wool socks that acted like slippers, and made it appear as though I had on more clothes beneath the robe. Then, after I was alone in the TV room, I'd take off my robe and masterbate to fantasies of letting other inmates have sex with me. I usually did this all by myself, but after a while, at least one other inmate noticed that I spent a lot of time in the TV room at night alone, so he started hanging out later than usual to see what would happen, and sure enough, I started letting him watch me masterbate and I even let him touch me while I was naked. But we never had intercourse, not even oral, and I never let him do more than just touch me with his hands while I masterbated. I got off on the power and control I seemed to have over him. We ended up becoming good friends (since we would converse a lot while all this was going on), and he never tried to go any further than I was willing to let him. He respected me, and that was a new experience for me when it came to sex. I should also note that while masterbating by myself in the TV room at nights seems bizarre, it made sense to me because by doing so I could cut off my fantasies of child rape. Masterbating in the TV room was a way for me to get excited without fantasizing about children. The risk of getting caught provided a kind of adrenaline kick, while the environment itself, a place where inmates normally congregated, provided tactile support for my fantasies while at the same time interfering with any kind of fantasies about children. It was like therapy for me, in more ways than one, not to mention, great exercise, since I often got very physical as I acted out my fantasies (e.g. dancing erotically in front of the room while I fantasized a room full of cheering inmates eager to have sex with me). I should also point out that in all my years in prison I never once got into trouble for my sexual behavior. Unlike other queens and homosexuals, who typically had more infractions for having sex than they could count, I never got caught or infracted once. There were a couple of times I came close to getting caught, but I never actually got caught. Nor did I ever contract a single sexually transmitted disease, not even crabs or herpes. I like to think this was because I was always very careful. But, I would not be being completely honest if I did not admit that I had at least some help from lady luck. Though I never needed a lot of luck, mostly because I was never as sexually active with other inmates as I was with myself. I often fantasized about having sex with ten inmates at a time, but I rarely ever had sex with even one (not counting the times I was raped at WCC). Even after I came out on my own as a queen (openly gay) I was almost completely monogamous, almost, but now I'm getting ahead of myself.

When a position came open in the electronics shop for a toolroom clerk, I quit my job in the kitchen and went to work for Fred Schuneman. The pay was the same (19.5 cents per hour, or about 23 dollars per month), and there were far fewer fringe benefits, and somewhat less prestige. The other workers in the electronics shop were mostly regular “inmates”, as opposed to “convicts”, but I didn't mind. The important thing to me was that I could be closer to computers. There were two Apple IIe computers in the shop, and every once and a while I would actually get to use one (usually by volunteering to do some tedious typing or other work). Then one magical day Fred came into the toolroom where I was working and asked me if I wanted a computer to work with. The shop had ended up with a spare Apple IIe from the school that was in the shop for repairs, but it had already been replaced at the school by the time it was fixed. So now the computer was just taking up room in the shop. Fred decided it may as well take up room in the tool room where I could use it. This was the first computer that I had essentially unrestricted access to, and I was more than ready for it. I had been studying not just programming languages, but also computer architecture, digital electronics, and just about anything else I could that had to do with computers. And now I could for the first time start applying what I had been learning. In the first month with the Apple computer I wrote a machine-code program that could beat anyone at a game called Mastermind (a colored peg sequence guessing game). I had assembled the program by hand, without the aid of another program called an assembler. I used the technical specs for the 6502e processor chip, and punched in hexidecimal numbers as the instructions instead of higher level command words. In other words, I did it the old fashioned (and very hard) way and I learned. Then I built a light-pen from spare electronic parts around the shop, including the machine-code “driver” for the pen, which plugged into an empty chip socket on the mother board of the Apple IIe. And soon after that (I had saved my pennies from work and bought a real compiler program called “Merlin”, so now I could start writing more advanced programs). I wrote a graphical compession algorythm that allowed my programs to create animated graphics with the very limited memory of computers in those days (my Apple had only 128 Kilobytes of RAM!). This was years before I ever heard of “gifs” (the popular little animated graphics all over the Internet today), which pretty much do the same thing my program did back then. When the vocational welding instructor saw me demonstrating my animation program he asked if I could use it to create a quiz program for his welding class that would have animated graphics along with each question. I said I could, and I did. I called the program “Quiz Wiz” (and years later I wrote a much more sophisticated Web-based version of Quiz Wiz for another vocational program at Monroe, Washington, that, last I heard, is still in use today.) I even once wrote a firmware hack (a program that takes over for the software that comes built into the computer hardware) that I called “Err-go!” and submitted it for publication to a popular magazine for Apple II computers called “Nibble”. My article was rejected, but I still think it was a great hack (it let Applesolf BASIC programmers write programs that could jump to labelled subroutines instead of just numbered routines, a feature that is standard today). In other words, yes, I had proven myself to be a genuine wiz kid. And, I took on all of the haughty airs that go along with such status. Well, I wasn't that haughty, but haughty enough to demand people to “leave me alone!” while I was working on the computer. I eventually got moved out of the tool room and took over the shops main computer, which was a suped-up Apple II e (with 512 k memory and 40 Mb external hard drive! Woo-hoo!). I became, officially, one of the shop techs (doing actual electronic repair work), but I spent most of my time on the computer.

An important aspect of my obsession with computers is that it provided me with a strong distraction from my sexual exploits. By the time I was turning myself into a computer wiz I had been moved to a housing unit called Summit House. It was the ultimate in “preferred” housing units. I could, and would, sit up in the laundry room at Summit House half the night, writing programs and studying, using the large tables, that were meant for folding clothes on, as my study desk, with books and papers spread out all over. I did not have time for fantasies, or dancing naked in the TV room. Computers seemed to be my salvation. Well, maybe not my “salvation”, but they had a definite impact on my fantasies. I recall that while I was studying computers, I still masterbated frequently.But my fantasies had become almost exclusively adult oriented. I never did “like” fantasizing about children. It was “pleasurable” to do so, but it always made me feel bad. So being able to fantasize about sex with other men was much preferable, and with my new social status as a “wiz kid” I found that I had a place in the adult world after all. For the first time I started feeling like I was an adult, not just a kid anymore. I was 24 years old.

I graduated with honors and special recognition with an AS degree in Electronics Service. At the graduation ceremony I was approached by a woman from Institutional Industries who congratulated me on my honors then offered me a job programming IBM computers in the industries offices. The job would pay five times what I was earning in the Electronics Shop, (over a dollar an hour) and was by far one of the best paying jobs in prison. But, I politely declined her offer, citing loyalty to the Electronics program. I felt I should “give back” what the program had given me.

Suddenly my world got turned upside down, again. Only this time in a good way! The Parole Board had been ordered by the courts to bring the minimum terms of all inmates in their charge, “within range of the SRA” (Sentencing Reform Act – a new set of laws that was supposed to provide predetermined sentences for all crimes and get rid of the Parole Board). Well, as I've mentioned before, my sentence was more than three times over the SRA range, so the Parole Board had to reduce my time. When they did so, they set a new sentence that was still over the SRA range for my crime, but it was under what I had already served! So what I expected to be a routine review hearing turned into a parole hearing! They asked me if I had any parole plans. I said, no. They asked what I would do if I were parole. I said, I didn't know. I simply wasn't prepared. They asked if I was willing to get sex offender treatment on the streets, and I said, of course. And then, right then and there, completely out of the blue, they found me parolable! It was over! I was going home! I'm emotional even now as I write this and remember how happy I was. My mother was still living in Tacoma at the same house I had been arrested at as a 16-year-old boy. I could go live with her, get a job, help her pay the mortage (she was close to loosing the house because of not being able to keep the payments up). And everything would be okay again! I was going home, at long long last! But, that's not what happened, not even close. It was another seven years before I actually got out on parole, and by then my mother had long lost the house, and I had long lost any hope of ever returning to a “normal” life. By the time I finally did get paroled I had only one purpose in life, revenge! It was the only thing I felt that I had to live for after what “they” did to me over the course of the next seven years. They destroyed every last hope I had and threw all my efforts to heal myself right back in my face. But, that's another chapter, that I call “The Transition”.

The Mark Of A Convict

I used to boast, when I was in prison, that my first infraction was for assaulting a guard. I didn't even have to lie. I'd just say, “I hit a guard in the head with a garbage can lid.” Technically that was the truth, and recently when the Federal prosecutor brought that infraction report into court as evidence of my “past violent behavior in prison”, I didn't challenge it. But, here's what really happened. I was working in the kitchen “garbage room” with another inmate. Our job was to take the garbage from the room to the back loading dock, and empty it into the garbage truck when it arrived. The cooks had changed the oil in the friers the day before. So there were about a half dozen boxes of empty Crisco cans. Each can was the same size as a regular can of Crisco oil and each one also came with its own plastic lid for resealing the can if it is only partially used. Each box held about 24 cans and consequently, about 24 plastic lids, which the cooks threw into the boxes loose with the cans after emptying them. So my co-worker and I were throwing the lids at each other like frisbees. They were harder to catch than to throw, so the object was to try to catch the lids the other guy threw with one hand, while throwing lids back with the other, all as fast as we could; scoring short-lived bragging points for “good catches”. The kitchen guard, c/o Tobin, was a layed back older man who I thought was “friendly”, as far as my very limited experience with guards went at the time. So when he walked into the garbage room and told us to get back to work, I jokingly threw one of the lids at him and shouted, “Tobin! Catch this!” (Those were the exact words that Tobin himself wrote in the infraction report). I expected him to turn when I called his name, but he was saying something to my co-worker, and turned about a second too late, just in time for the five-inch plastic lid to hit him on the forehead above his left eye, by surprize. I laughed and said, “Opps... you were supposed to catch it, sorry!” The other inmate and Tobin suddenly weren't smiling. I didn't understand it at the time, but I had just violated a subtle, but serious prison taboo; inmates don't familiarize themselves with the guards, no matter how friendly they are. Of course, Tobin was not injured in the least. But, a line had been crossed and he had to make sure that I understood I was never to cross it again. He wrote me up for “Assault on a guard”, one of the most serious infractions possible. I couldn't believe he wrote me up at all, much less for such a serious infraction. I thought he was such a nice guy. But, I had a lot to learn and this was to be only my first of many “lessons”, over the years, that came in the form of unexpected infractions. I learned that there is an invisible but well defined social stratum line between guards and inmates; guards above, inmates below. I learned that while conventional etiquette crossed that line freely enough, familiar things such as trust, genuine concern, and any kind of intimacy, were strickly barred from crossing between the two strata. I learned that no matter how friendly a guard was, they could never be my friend. I eventually learned to hate the “System”, and that was an important part of my prison education that helped keep me alive. Other inmates can “feel” this hatred in each other, and it's not easy to fake. It is the mark of a convict, and the basis for a code that I learned and lived by in order to survive, and “stay out of trouble”. Of course, it is also the basis for what prison officials call, “criminal mentality”, and what psychologists call, “anti-social personality disorder”. Inmates are trained to hate the System, by the System. And nobody seems to care; not even when that hate gets escalated by the same “Criminal Justice” System into a murderous rage.